Marcovaldo

Italo Calvino

Description

A charming portrait of one man’s dreams and schemes, by “the greatest Italian writer of the twentieth century” (The Guardian).
 
In this enchanting book of linked stories, Italo Calvino charts the disastrous schemes of an Italian peasant, an unskilled worker in a drab northern industrial city in the 1950s and ’60s, struggling to reconcile his old country habits with his current urban life.
 
Marcovaldo has a practiced eye for spotting natural beauty and an unquenchable longing for the unspoiled rural world of his imagination. Much to the continuing puzzlement of his wife, his children, his boss, and his neighbors, he chases his dreams and gives rein to his fantasies, whether it’s sleeping in the great outdoors on a park bench, following a stray cat, or trying to catch wasps. Unfortunately, the results are never quite what he anticipates.
 
Spanning from the 1950s to the 1960s, the twenty stories in Marcovaldo are alternately comic and melancholy, farce and fantasy. Throughout, Calvino’s unassuming masterpiece “conveys the sensuous, tangible qualities of life” (The New York Times).

Sujets

• Années 1960
• Années 1950
• Fantasy
• Nature
• Nouveau roman
• Short Stories
• City Life
• World literature
• Postmodernism
• Short story
• 1960s
• 1950s
• 50s
• 60s
• Oulipo
• Magic realism
• Postmodern literature
• Literary fiction
• Italian literature
• Northern Italy
• European literature
• 20th century in literature
• Comedy
• Humor

Informations

• Publié par: Open Road Media
• Date de parution: 26 octobre 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 12
• EAN13: 9780544133228
• Langue: English

Extrait

Contents
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Author’s Note:
SPRING
SUMMER
AUTUMN
WINTER
SPRING
SUMMER
AUTUMN
WINTER
SPRING
SUMMER
AUTUMN
WINTER
SPRING
SUMMER
AUTUMN
WINTER
SPRING
SUMMER
AUTUMN
WINTER
About the Author
Copyright © 1963 by Giulio Einaudi Editore, S.p.A. English translation copyright © 1983 by Harcourt, Inc. and Martin Seeker & Warburg Limited

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [e-mail] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

www.hmhco.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows: Calvino, Italo. Marcovaldo, or The seasons in the city. Translation of: Marcovaldo, ovvero, Le stagioni in città. “A Helen and Kurt Wolff book.” I. Title. PQ4809A45M313 1983 853'.9'14 83-4372 ISBN -13 978-0-15-157081-2 ISBN -10 0-15-157081-7 ISBN -13 978-0-15-657204-0 (pb) ISBN -10 0-15-657204-4 (pb)

e ISBN 978-0-544-13322-8 v3.1215
Author’s Note:
These stories take place in an industrial city of northern Italy. The first in the series were written in the early 1950s and thus are set in a very poor Italy, the Italy of neo-realistic movies. The last stories date from the mid-60s, when the illusions of an economic boom flourished.
I.C.
SPRING
1. Mushrooms in the city
The wind, coming to the city from far away, brings it unusual gifts, noticed by only a few sensitive souls, such as hay-fever victims, who sneeze at the pollen from flowers of other lands.
One day, to the narrow strip of ground flanking a city avenue came a gust of spores from God knows where; and some mushrooms germinated. Nobody noticed them except Marcovaldo, the worker who caught his tram just there every morning.
This Marcovaldo possessed an eye ill-suited to city life: billboards, traffic-lights, shop-windows, neon signs, posters, no matter how carefully devised to catch the attention, never arrested his gaze, which might have been running over the desert sands. Instead, he would never miss a leaf yellowing on a branch, a feather trapped by a roof-tile; there was no horsefly on a horse’s back, no worm-hole in a plank, or fig-peel squashed on the sidewalk that Marcovaldo didn’t remark and ponder over, discovering the changes of season, the yearnings of his heart, and the woes of his existence.
Thus, one morning, as he was waiting for the tram that would take him to Sbav and Co., where he was employed as an unskilled laborer, he noticed something unusual near the stop, in the sterile, encrusted strip of earth beneath the avenue’s line of trees; at certain points, near the tree trunks, some bumps seemed to rise and, here and there, they had opened, allowing roundish subterranean bodies to peep out.
Bending to tie his shoes, he took a better look: they were mushrooms, real mushrooms, sprouting right in the heart of the city! To Marcovaldo the gray and wretched world surrounding him seemed suddenly generous with hidden riches; something could still be expected of life, beyond the hourly wage of his stipulated salary, with inflation index, family grant, and cost-of-living allowance.
On the job he was more absent-minded than usual; he kept thinking that while he was there unloading cases and boxes, in the darkness of the earth the slow, silent mushrooms, known only to him, were ripening their porous flesh, were assimilating underground humors, breaking the crust of clods. “One night’s rain would be enough,” he said to himself, “then they would be ready to pick.” And he couldn’t wait to share his discovery with his wife and his six children.
“I’m telling you!” he announced during their scant supper. “In a week’s time we’ll be eating mushrooms! A great fry! That’s a promise!”
And to the smaller children, who did not know what mushrooms were, he explained ecstatically the beauty of the numerous species, the delicacy of their flavor, the way they should be cooked; and so he also drew into the discussion his wife, Domitilla, who until then had appeared rather incredulous and abstracted.
“Where are these mushrooms?” the children asked. “Tell us where they grow!”
At this question Marcovaldo’s enthusiasm was curbed by a suspicious thought: Now if I tell them the place, they’ll go and hunt for them with the usual gang of kids, word will spread through the neighborhood, and the mushrooms will end up in somebody else’s pan! And so that discovery, which had promptly filled his heart with universal love, now made him wildly possessive, surrounded him with jealous and distrusting fear.
“I know where the mushrooms are, and I’m the only one who knows,” he said to his children, “and God help you if you breathe a word to anybody.”
The next morning, as he approached the tram stop, Marcovaldo was filled with apprehension. He bent to look at the ground and, to his relief, saw that the mushrooms had grown a little, but not much, and were still almost completely hidden by the earth.
He was bent in this position when he realized there was someone behind him. He straightened up at once and tried to act indifferent. It was the street-cleaner, leaning on his broom and looking at him.
This street-cleaner, whose jurisdiction included the place where the mushrooms grew, was a lanky youth with eyeglasses. His name was Amadigi, and Marcovaldo had long harbored a dislike of him, perhaps because of those eyeglasses that examined the pavement of the streets, seeking any trace of nature, to be eradicated by his broom.
It was Saturday; and Marcovaldo spent his free half-day circling the bed of dirt with an absent air, keeping an eye on the street-cleaner in the distance and on the mushrooms, and calculating how much time they needed to ripen.
That night it rained: like peasants who, after months of drought, wake up and leap with joy at the sound of the first drops, so Marcovaldo, alone in all the city, sat up in bed and called to his family: “It’s raining! It’s raining!” and breathed in the smell of moistened dust and fresh mold that came from outside.
At dawn — it was Sunday — with the children and a borrowed basket, he ran immediately to the patch. There were the mushrooms, erect on their stems, their caps high over the still-soaked earth. “Hurrah!” — and they fell to gathering them.
“Papà! Look how many that man over there has found,” Michelino said, and his father, raising his eyes, saw Amadigi standing beside them, also with a basket full of mushrooms under his arm.
“Ah, you’re gathering them, too?” the street-cleaner said. “Then they’re edible? I picked a few, but I wasn’t sure . . . Farther down the avenue some others have sprouted, even bigger ones . . . Well, now that I know, I’ll tell my relatives; they’re down there arguing whether it’s a good idea to pick them or not . . .” And he walked off in a hurry.
Marcovaldo was speechless: even bigger mushrooms, which he hadn’t noticed, an unhoped-for harvest, being taken from him like this, before his very eyes. For a moment he was almost frozen with anger, fury, then — as sometimes happens — the collapse of individual passion led to a generous impulse. At that hour, many people were waiting for the tram, umbrellas over their arms, because the weather was still damp and uncertain. “Hey, you! Do you want to eat fried mushrooms tonight?” Marcovaldo shouted to the crowd of people at the stop. “Mushrooms are growing here by the street! Come along! There’s plenty for all!” And he walked off after Amadigi, with a string of people behind him.
They all found plenty of mushrooms, and lacking baskets, they used their open umbrellas. Somebody said: “It would be nice to have a big feast, all of us together!” But, instead, each took his own share and went home.
They saw one another again soon, however; that very evening, in fact, in the same ward of the hospital, after the stomach-pump had saved them all from poisoning. It was not serious, because the number of mushrooms eaten by each person was quite small.
Marcovaldo and Amadigi had adjacent beds; they glared at each other.
SUMMER
2. Park-bench vacation
On his way to work each morning, Marcovaldo walked beneath the green foliage of a square with trees, a bit of public garden, isolated in the junction of four streets. He raised his eyes among the boughs of the horse-chestnuts, where they were at their thickest and allowed yellow rays only to glint in the shade transparent with sap; and he listened to the racket of the sparrows, tone-deaf, invisible on the branches. To him they seemed nightingales, and he said to himself: “Oh, if I could wake just once at the twitter of birds and not at the sound of the alarm and the crying of little Paolino and the yelling of my wife, Domitilla!” or else: “Oh, if I could sleep here, alone, in the midst of this cool green shade and not in my cramped, hot room; here amid